The Cassington Scholar
by Enitharmon
Summary: Twenty years on, and the world is in turmoil. Is Jordan College ready to embrace change? What is Lyra's role in all this?
1. Jordan

_Usual disclaimers apply. Some of the characters as well as Jordan and St Sophia's Colleges and their institutions are not my property but belong to Philip Pullman. Other characters are my own._

**THE CASSINGTON SCHOLAR**

_NOTE: The word 'geo' which appears herein is a Shetland Islands term for a gully in a cliff. It is pronounced with a hard 'g'. Some geos really do exhibit the phenomenon described, including the one at Esha Ness which I had in mind when I wrote the story i_

**Jordan**

The world was in convulsions. Change was rushing in great swirling currents, roaring through every crack and cranny in society and sweeping before it anything that was loose or insecure. Only when the currents of change met the great mass of Jordan College did they part respectfully leaving its towers and spires, for the most part, in stately isolation.

In the Retiring Room the Master dropped a knob of butter into the silver chafing-dish on the sideboard and lit the spirit lamp beneath it. A secret smile played across his lips as he reflected, not without a little smugness, that he was doing what generations of Masters had done before him and would do for generations to come. From the wall above his head he sensed the benevolent gaze of Sir Thomas Billington, portrayed in his ever-present severe black suit and with his raven-daemon Lenore perched knowingly on his shoulder. Sir Thomas had been Master when he had first been introduced to the Retiring Room as the newly-appointed Palmerian Professor, and despite advancing years had steered Jordan College astutely through the Troubles of twenty years earlier.

Taking his pocket knife he slit a handful of poppy-heads, tossing them into the sizzling butter before turning to face the assembled Scholars. He was, he mused to himself as he looked around the faces, the only survivor of the Troubles.

'We have to move with the times', the recently-appointed Palmerian Professor was asserting from the depths of his battered green-leather armchair. He was all but lying down in it, thought the Master with disgust. The man was wearing a suit of artfully-crumpled cream linen. His thinning ginger hair was cropped short, accentuating his bat-ears, and his speech betrayed the attenuated vowels of New Denmark. His daemon Dorabella, raccoon-formed, scampered restlessly back and forth across the chair back. 'We can't stand still. Ten years ago Experimental Theology meant Jordan. Now everybody's rushing past us. Just look at what's coming from Gawthwaite's team at Harrogate'.

Harrogate was one of the new universities that were springing up in the north of England, funded by the explosion of commercial activity up there, helping to fill the void left by a deflated Church. The Master fought back a grimace of distaste and glanced at Philoclea, his magpie-daemon, who was disdainfully preening her feathers on the sideboard. The Sub-Rector drew heavily on his pipe and hid his face behind a great cloud of smoke. The remaining four pairs of eyes swivelled to glare at the Palmerian Professor.

'Harrogate!', said the Enquirer, breaking the awkward silence. 'You want to work in a concrete office block, financed by a bunch of shopkeepers, that's fine by me!'

'No!', said the Librarian. 'It pains me greatly but there's truth in what the Palmerian Professor is saying. We haven't produced any original scholarship in the field for quite a while'.

'Still licking our wounds after Lord Asriel's little adventure', said the Dean.

'They have plenty of research funding', observed the Chaplain. 'The north is where the money is these days'.

'You'd better believe it', drawled the Palmerian Professor. Dorabella leapt onto the sideboard and stole an oatcake from a plate, dipping it in the water jug before settling down to nibble it. 'The north is where your roast swan is coming from!'.

It was undeniably true. While the Troubles had sapped Jordan's capital, the investments in commercial property in Manchester and elsewhere had yielded returns beyond the dreams of the Concilium.

'What we need,' said the Dean, 'is a shot of new blood. A new impetus to our Experimental Theology research'.

'Ha!', said the Enquirer. 'We could poach somebody from Harrogate!'

'How are we going to fund this new scholar?' asked the eminently practical Sub-Rector. The investment income from Manchester is well and good but we need that desperately for our own hypostructure'.

The Master had been watching the exchanges with quiet amusement, but broke his silence now. 'There is the Cassington Scholarship', he offered.

The eyes of the Scholars turned expectantly towards the Master.

'The Cassington Scholarship was always awarded to a free-thinker', he continued. 'Free-thinking didn't go down terribly well with the Magisterium. The last Cassington Scholar thought a little too freely for their taste. Terrible business. He was arrested, tried and executed for heresy during the Troubles'. He paused in the stunned silence. 'But, we may decide that, if you will excuse the phrase, the Dust has settled by now?' He chuckled gently. 'The trust is still in place. Gathered a lot of interest in twenty years, I should think'.

There was a glint in the Palmerian Professor's eye. 'I know just the person,' he said, 'not in Harrogate but right here in Oxford. Published a brilliant paper on the interactions of Rusakov particles a couple of years ago'.

Around the room, six pairs of eyes lit up like anbaric lamps.

'But you aren't going to like it', continued the Palmerian Professor. 'For one thing it would mean appointing the youngest Scholar Jordan has ever known…'

'Oh, I think we could handle that', said the Librarian. 'A bit of youthful exuberance sounds just what Jordan has always needed'.

'Which college?' asked the Dean, full of suspicion.

The Palmerian Professor drew a deep breath and grinned. 'Saint Sophia's', he declaimed, relishing every syllable.

The groans from around the room were palpable. Daemons squawked and chattered like frightened animals in a forest stalked by a great predator, while Dorabella strutted on the floor between the chairs.

'That would be the end of Jordan College as we know it', the Sub-Rector muttered.

'I believe the Palmerian Professor is referring to Doctor Belacqua', said the Master. 'Well, if nothing else she is Oxford through and through'.

'Has anybody any better suggestions?', asked the Palmerian Professor, sitting up and leaning forward with challenge in his eyes.

The ensuing silence was broken by the Librarian. 'The Palmerian Professor is quite right. It may be that we have to adapt to the times or die'.

The Master looked from Scholar to Scholar and noticed that their daemons all seemed now to be asleep or pretending to be, with the exception of Dorabella who had now returned to the back of her chair and sat alert and bright-eyed, swishing her beautiful ringed tail. He sighed. 'Shall we put it to the vote then? That we are minded - minded, mark you - to offer the Cassington Scholarship to Doctor Belacqua of St Sophia's College?'

Six heads nodded, some with more enthusiasm than others.

'I vote yes!' said the Palmerian Professor with an air of triumph.

'No!', thundered the Sub-Rector from behind a wall of smoke-leaf fumes.

'Aye!', said the Librarian.

'Over my dead body!', the Dean muttered under his breath.

'Do I take that as a No, Dean?', enquired the Master. The Dean nodded slowly and deliberately.

'Aye!', chirped the Chaplain.

All eyes turned to the Enquirer whose vole-daemon clung to his shoulder, quivering. 'Aye', he said in a quavering whisper after a pause pregnant with passionate intensity.

'And my vote is No,' said the Master, 'but it doesn't matter because we have voted, in principle at least, to offer the Cassington Scholarship to a woman. This is without precedent in the long and noble history of Jordan College and every sinew in my body says it is wrong. But I do know that Doctor Belacqua is no ordinary woman. Most of you will not be aware of this but Doctor Belacqua has been well-known to, indeed been much loved by, this College, though not as a Scholar. And I do believe that Destiny plays a part in our actions sometimes and we should have the faith to follow it. Very well. I suggest that the Dean and I, and perhaps the Palmerian Professor, should meet to discuss the practicalities before we commit ourselves to any decision'.

Instinctively he looked upwards as if for support. And to his dying day he would swear that Sir Thomas Billington winked at him from his portrait.


	2. Sea Interlude

**Sea Interlude**

Far to the north of Oxford lies the island of Hjaltland, part of the great archipelago of the Isles of Brytain although, notionally at least, belonging to Norroway. Though the northern lands are embroiled in war, Hjaltland seems to stand apart as a haven of peace. The sheltered port of Leirvik is a crossroads for the seafaring folk of the north, a place where Tartars and New Danes, Skraelings and Albans drink together in the bars by the harbour and brawl in the streets and make music together in the public halls as they have for centuries. 

At the edge of a grassy plateau atop a mighty cliff in the remote north of Hjaltland, Lyra Belacqua and Serafina Pekkala sat on an evening of late summer looking out over the great northern ocean.

'Why so sad, sister?', asked Serafina.

'Sad?', replied Lyra, 'do I look sad? I was just thinking'.

'You can share it with me, sister'.

'I just love being here, Serafina. I'm so glad I found it. It makes me feel I can be queen of my own land for the summer. Oh, do look at Pan!'

Pantalaimon, her pine-marten daemon, was relishing his freedom to roam, scampering about the cliff face and trying to creep up on the puffins and guillemots that crowded the rock ledges. Every time he got close, the birds casually flew off at the last minute.

'Sister, something is worrying you. By my witch's instinct I know it!'

Lyra pursed her lips in silent thought. Way below she watched the slow deliberate rhythm of the ocean swells, taut and muscular. They hit the base of the cliff and crashed into the geo, sending great spurts of foam high into the air. 

'I worry about the world', she said at last. 'What was happening before was bad. I'm not sure now that things aren't even worse now'.

'A great evil has been removed from the world', said Serafina Pekkala. 'It suppressed free will and curiosity. You were responsible for ending that, Lyra! But you should not be surprised if there is a reaction. It will take time for matters to settle, as people look for their place in the new order'.

'It feels like a terrible burden to bear. It's as if I lived a dozen lifetimes before I was even fully-grown. And now… Well, the rest of my life feels like the ocean out there, stretching on as far as I can see, all empty and all the same'.

'Sister, there is nothing empty about the ocean. It is full of life and boundless energy'. As if to illustrate her point, a larger wave sent spray crashing out of the geo and showering them. 'There is work to be done yet. There's still a Republic of Heaven to be built, remember!'

Lyra turned to face Serafina. She was still in awe of the way the witch-queen's shreds of black silk flapped in the brisk, chilly wind. She was glad of her padded anorak though it was August. 'Oh, I know', she said, 'and there's so much to learn about Dust too. Sometimes I think I have a long way to go just to be where Doctor Malone was in her world. But I can't ask her! I wish I had her equipment'. She added the last with a deep sigh.

'Why can't you?', asked Serafina.

'You know, I think maybe I could have the equipment now if I wanted it. I've loved being at St Sophia's. They've given me all the support and encouragement I could have wished for. But it's a small college without many resources. And it's a women's college, and in Oxford that means the back of the queue. It's hard to be taken seriously'.

A wave much larger than usual must have crashed into the geo, for a spout of frothing sea-water burst up from the cliff and soaked them. The wave must have drenched Pantalaimon too, for he came sprinting over the cliff-top and leaping onto Lyra's shoulders, nuzzling his sodden fur into her neck and allowing her to comfort him before racing off through the wind-ruffled cottongrass and bog-asphodel.

'So, what has changed?', enquired Serafina.

'Well, it's really strange. I've had two offers and I don't know what to make of either of them. One is from the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit in Geneva, offering me all the resources I want to research Dust for them. I don't like it, after what happened…'

'The Magisterium is dedicated to its own survival. You shouldn't be too surprised if they, too, are finding their place in the new order. It may not be as sinister as you think'.

'Well, maybe, but I still don't like it. The other offer is from Jordan College, and that's really weird. The thing is, Serafina, that I've always loved Jordan and everything it stands for and I want to be a part of it. But if I was a part of Jordan, as a Scholar I mean, then it wouldn't be the same Jordan any more, would it?'

'Perhaps that's the next chapter in your destiny, sister, to show that women can take their proper place in the world too! You're thinking of Will, aren't you? Or of Will's world anyway'.

'I was just thinking how shocked I was when I found that the Scholar in Will's Oxford - Doctor Malone I mean - that the alethiometer told me to find - was a woman. Well, why not. Women seem to do a lot more and have a lot more freedom in that world than we do. How did you know anyway?'

'I don't want for things to do, sister, or feel the lack of freedom. But it's different for witches. That medal round your neck - you keep fingering it every time you think about Will and his world, did you know that? What is it anyway?'

Lyra lifted the medal on its chain so that Serafina could take it in her fingers and examine it. 'It's money from Will's world. I found I had quite a lot of it afterwards and I never gave it back. I put it in a tin box as a kind of souvenir. But this coin was so odd. It looked old and battered and distorted at first, but when you look closely at it, it's got seven perfectly even edges, each slightly curved. I got Iorek Byrnison to put it in a gold setting so I could wear it round my neck all the time. It's a way of keeping Will close to me.'

'That's a crowned woman on the coin', said Serafina, 'In Will's world the king is a woman. Women can have real power. Remember that, always!'

'So you think I should accept the Jordan offer?'

'I think you should do what you think is right. And I know your choice will be a wise one, whatever it is'.

The sun was dipping below the western horizon now. Pantalaimon came over in his graceful undulating run and jumped onto Lyra's shoulder. 'We must get back to the cottage', said Lyra.

'And I must return to Lake Enara and my people', said Serafina. 'These are troubled times in the lands of the witches. Go well, sister! And remember what I told you! Leave a message with the witch-consul in Leirvik if you need me.'

'Go well, Serafina Pekkala! And thank you!'

The two women embraced. The witch-queen mounted her cloud-pine branch and flew away into the darkening eastern sky. Lyra, with Pantalaimon snuggled around her neck asleep, lingered for a few minutes watching thoughtfully as the last rays of the setting sun vanished behind the world in a blaze of crimson.


	3. Jordan Again

**Jordan again**

On an evening of October, crackling with the first frosts of autumn under a sky full of stars, Lyra found herself knocking nervously at the gloomy old door in the Yaxley Quad. With her was Dame Rosemary Braddock, the Head of St Sophia's. At their feet Pantalaimon was running round in agitated circles, trying his best to provoke Dame Rosemary's daemon Medoro, a large and placid badger with gentle and knowing eyes

Lyra was quite at home in the Master's Lodging at Jordan College, though it had been some years now since she had dined there. She had on several occasions been an honoured guest in the evenings, though Sir Thomas's successor had been much colder towards her and her visits had been rare since she moved to St Sophia's. Still, she felt a deep queasiness coming here now. For the third time in her life, dinner at the Master's Lodging would mark an important change in the course of her life. Of the course of the world, even.

'Well, Lyra,' said the Master after the steward had cleared away the last of the dishes, 'this is an important day for Jordan College. Are you sure you won't take a drink before we go over to the Hall? I believe the steward has found a crock or two of jenniver'.

Lyra seldom drank alcohol. She had a long memory for her childish adventures in the cellars, and besides it reminded her uncomfortably of Roger the kitchen boy. Still, through her friendship with the gyptians she had acquired a taste for the bittersweet tang of jenniver.

'Just a small one, Master, in honour of the occasion'. In reality, she thought, she needed it to steady her nerves. Though she did her best to keep a cool head, she was sure that Pantalaimon was betraying her, rushing this way and that around the room, leaping into her lap to glare at Philoclea on the Master's shoulder, then leaping down again to taunt Medoro.

'I won't pretend I don't have grave misgivings', said the Master, 'But the world must move on and our old ideas are giving way to new ones. And that's how it should be. If it has to be anybody, Lyra, I'm glad that it's you'.

There had been few moments in her life, she knew, when she had been lost for words. This was one of them.

'It's an important day for St Sophia's as well Lyra', added Dame Rosemary. 'And a very sad one too. You have been a great credit to my College and we are all very proud of you. You've certainly put St Sophia's on the scholarship map. There will always be a welcome for you there'

The three scholars raised their glasses and clinked them together. Lyra was fighting back tears. It was all she could do to murmur 'thank you'.

'I do believe', said the master, 'that the Scholars think you are going to introduce chintz sofas and lacy drapes to the Retiring Room. I hope you aren't going to change things too hastily?'

That broke the tension. Lyra felt a gentle laugh well up inside her. 'I don't think so Master. You know I have too much love and respect for Jordan College for that'.

'Well, Lyra,' said the Master, 'It's time. Shall we go?'

'And if I may', said Dame Rosemary, 'I'll come across the Quad with you'.

Lyra took the opportunity to check her appearance in the gilt-framed mirror in the lobby. She was anxious not to appear red-eyed. She wore no make-up - the thought of make-up made her feel physically sick - but she had no need of it. She had chosen her outfit carefully; trousers as a statement of rebellion, in linen of the deep green of the northern pine-forests, with a matching coat and a silk shirt of palest primrose. It suited her colouring perfectly and set her tawny hair ablaze. She had faced terrors before and survived; now she was ready for the Scholars of Jordan.

'I'd be honoured if you would take my arm', said the Master at the door. Lyra slipped her hand diffidently into the crook of his left elbow, and with Dame Rosemary on her left side a strange procession set off across the Yaxley Quad. Pantalaimon rose to the solemnity of the occasion and trotted ahead beside Medoro as a guard of honour, with Philoclea flying over their heads.

Will was occupying her consciousness. She thought how proud he would be of her at this moment, and her free hand went to the coin on its chain. She fingered it deliberately and sensuously and wondered where he was and what he was doing and how he was living in that strange other world, and she wished more than ever that he could be here with her. She felt the hot tears running down the sharp coldness of her cheeks and had no desire to wipe them away. She looked up at the stars and knew that that angels were looking after her.

Dame Rosemary embraced her at the Hall door and said goodbye, and then the Master led her through the dim Hall to the Retiring Room. Lyra had seldom known fear in her life but she felt frozen now, as frozen as she had felt in the World of the Dead. The door to the Retiring Room opened and she seemed to drift through it under an external force, into the warm naphtha light. She swallowed hard and glanced around trying to taken it all in. It was the wardrobe she looked for first, and there was the old rosewood table, and the green armchairs, just like it was…

And the faces all turned towards her. She felt her face burning and looked down at her feet. Pantalaimon leapt into her arms and from there climbed up to her shoulders. She dug her hands into his rich, soft fur for reassurance.

The Master was speaking in his formal occasion tone. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'This is a moment of historic importance for Jordan College. It is with great pride that I want to introduce to you our Cassington Scholar, Doctor Lyra Belacqua. Doctor Belacqua is the first woman ever, in the whole long history of Jordan College, to set foot in our Retiring Room'.

A spasm of guilt shuddered through Lyra's body and she gripped Pantalaimon so hard that he let out a snarl of pain. It subsided in a second though - after all what the Master had just said was no less than the truth. Whether what he said next was, would remain to be seen.

'I'm sure you'll all give a very warm welcome to her. I'm quite convinced that she will lead Jordan College to newer and greater heights of learning and scholarship'.

It was said as an instruction, not with conviction. A buzz of welcome rolled round the room. Lyra raised her eyes and looked around at the faces. Most were smiling. The Dean was scowling furiously, and the Sub-Rector was hiding behind a pall of leaf-smoke. She noticed for the first time, on the rosewood table amongst the glasses and decanters, an animal she had never seen before; a wide baby face with a sharply-pointed snout, a black mask over its eyes and a big fluffy ringed tail. It was sitting right at the focus of the room blithely nibbling on an oatcake which it held daintily in its forepaws . She guessed it belonged to the Scholar in the crumpled cream suit, stretched out almost horizontally in an armchair with his hands clasped behind his head and his right ankle crossed over the opposite knee. This Scholar was grinning broadly at her.

'Welcome Doctor Belacqua!', he said in a voice that reminded her faintly of Lee Scoresby. 'I'm the Palmerian Professor and I guess you've noticed my helpmeet Dorabella. She's a raccoon! Oh, won't you sit down and make yourself at home?'

'Glad to meet you', said Lyra, unable to match his enthusiasm. She sank into an empty armchair and looked around. The other daemons, she noticed, all seemed strangely subdued. There was a faint air of embarrassment in the atmosphere and she felt wound-up and unable to settle. Pantalaimon jumped into her lap and curled up. She sank her fingers into his fur, scratching him gently. Her eye caught the portrait of her old familiar Master. Sir Thomas Billington was the name on the frame. Funny that, she'd never known his name before. He was always just The Master.

The Scholars seemed to have forgotten her already and were beginning to talk amongst themselves. The conversation was about politics, and the King's Council, and the international situation. Subjects which held little interest for Lyra. She felt awkward, and drowsy from the jenniver - even a small glass could do that for her - and the fug of smoke leaf. She thought of Will again, and stroked her coin with one hand while petting the sleeping Pantalaimon with the other…

She must have dozed off. But the voice of the Palmerian Professor came booming through her consciousness. 'I wonder what Doctor Belacqua thinks'.

'Mmm. What I think of what?' she murmured sleepily.

'We were just saying that the days of scholarship for its own sake were gone'. The voice seemed to bounce off all the walls at once.

'You mean you were saying it', said the Librarian.

'He has a point, you know', said the Enquirer. 'Part of our function is to make the world a better place'

'Exactly my point!', the Palmerian Professor shot back. 'We shouldn't just shut ourselves away behind our gates and contemplate the meaning of life. We should be out there creating wealth!'

Lyra thought she heard the words 'Somebody strangle the little runt' muttered from a cloud of leaf-smoke, but she might have been imagining it.

'Do you mean we should be taking on commercially-sponsored research?' the Dean asked.

'Why yes, that's where the future is! Go for growth! Go for power! Go for the money! And carry the message to the Tartars and the Skraelings!'

Lyra found herself thinking of the Philosophers of Cittagazze and their greed. She thought of the perverted scholarship of the Magisterium and the crazed megalomania of Lord Asriel. Her stomach heaved a little at her recollection of and the stench of naphtha fumes that permeated Will's world where sumptuous carts like Sir Charles Latrom's passed by the beggars on the streets. She remembered too the gentle contentment of the mulefa and the mission that had been laid upon her by Xaphania the angel. She had made a great sacrifice and it must not be in vain. She sat up rigidly in the chair, so suddenly that Pantalaimon woke and jumped to the floor, and gripped the arms tightly.

'NO!'

The hush that fell over the room was deafening.

'No', she continued. 'That's not the way! I've seen what happens'. She had to stop to catch her breath. 'Believe me. You must believe me. All the wisdom was leaving the world, don't you see? And we stopped it. But if we go your way we'll lose it again. We'll all DIE!'. The last word was a shriek. She was on her feet now. Her eyes were blazing and her tawny hair seemed on fire. Across the room Pantalaimon was nose-to-nose with Dorabella the raccoon, snarling and hissing. 'We have a responsibility to use our scholarship, our learning, to help people to learn about and understand the world, not to manipulate them! Help them know how things work and how to think freely and, and…'. Tears were stinging her cheeks now and she had to pause to choke back her anger. 'And that's what Jordan College has always been about and if Jordan College is going to go the way you want it to go then I don't bloody want to be bloody part of it and you can stuff your bloody Cassington Scholarship up your…'

Lyra was blinded by tears now and convulsed in sobs so that the words wouldn't come any more. She breathed deeply several times and by the time her composure returned she was aware of a new atmosphere in the room, a pregnant silence looming over everything. The Palmerian Professor seemed to have shrunk back into his chair, the raccoon clinging to his neck. The other Scholars stared at her open-mouthed. Even the Sub-Rector, whose cloud of leaf-smoke had dispersed.

She blinked back the last of the tears and turned sheepishly. 'I'm sorry, Master', she said, quietly and steadily.

The face at first severe broke into a smile and then a grin, and then deep warm laughter gushed up from his belly. The laughter caught on and rippled around the other scholars, nervously at first and then heartily. Somebody, she couldn't tell who, started to clap.

'Welcome to Jordan College', said the Master. "Lyra Belacqua, you've come home!'


End file.
